In The Still of the Night
by bLEWfire
Summary: Oneshot: the brothers talk and take a trip down memory lane. Angst, sap, and plenty of Sam and Dean!


**In The Still of the Night**

_Okay, I've been reading Supernatural fanfiction for awhile now, but this is my first attempt to a write a story of my own. It's modern day, a oneshot, inspired by my frustration over the boys ongoing and repetitive fight about Sam's destiny. As much as I know it would never happen, a part me just wishes they could have a conversation like this and settle the issue. Warning: overladen with sapp – don't hate me – that's what fanfiction is for!_

_Disclaimer: Supernatural owns me, not the other way around. King Kripke has all the power._

_**Editing note: I've updated this story with a few typo corrections and a couple of small detail changes and added passages. Any persistent mistakes are my fault – I have no beta.**_

**S&DWS&DWS&DWS&DWS&DWS&DWS&DWS&DWS&DWS&DWS&DWS&DW**

Dean's eyes flickered open the moment the sharp intake of breath pierced his consciousness. After twenty-three years it was practically instinctive. He didn't need to turn on the lights or speak to know what was going on. _Sammy. Nightmare._

For as long as he could remember, his little brother had been tortured by horrifying images which crept upon him as he slept. As a little boy, the ghastly dreams had plagued Sam almost nightly, and Dean would be awakened by terror filled screams which never failed to rip his heart to shreds and leave him feeling weak and helpless. Each night, he would pull Sam from the nightmare, and hold him and comfort him as the little boy cried his fear away. And each night, after Sam would finally drift back to sleep from sheer emotional exhaustion, Dean would lie awake and rack his brain for a way to save Sam from these nightly tortures. Years passed, and Sam grew older, and the nightmares came less and less often, but they never disappeared completely.

And now, Dean had long since realized that there were some things in this world which he could not protect his little brother from, and Sam had long since passed the age where he woke screaming in terror at the horrific scenes which so often plagued his unconscious mind. As soon as he'd hit puberty, Sam had rejected coddling from his brother in any form, and Dean suspected Sam had trained himself not to scream as he woke from his nightmares in an effort not to rouse his older brother with all his protective instincts. But all of Dean's senses were tuned to the Sam channel, and no matter how quiet Sam was, Dean always awoke.

He didn't need to hear Sam scream or see him cry to know he was afraid. A single breath would do, and sometimes perhaps, nothing audible or visible at all.

Even when Sam was gone at Stanford, there had been nights, often at first, and then only occasionally when Dean would wake suddenly and unexpectedly in the dark quiet of the night. And somewhere in his mind, on those nights, he wondered if his baby brother had woken scared and lonely in a distant room, reeling from another haunting image.

But he never knew for sure, and as far as he could tell, Sam never knew that Dean still woke with every nightmare. Unless it was a vision, the brothers never talked about Sam's dreams – they only wondered silently to themselves and allowed their Winchester pride to inspire their silence.

So this night, as with all the others in recent years, Dean kept his breathing steady, his eyes closed, and waited for the sound of Sam falling back to sleep. But that sound, that subtle sound which provided his only comfort, never came. Instead he heard Sam crawl out of bed and shuffle into some other part of the room. Bewildered, Dean opened his eyes. The lights were off of course, and even open his eyes saw only blackness, but they stared unseeingly into space, waiting. Waiting for some sign that things were still normal – or as normal as they could be. He wasn't sure he could deal with anything other than normal tonight.

They'd just spent the last few days working on a demonic possession in Wyoming. Earlier that night, they'd finally cornered the boy – only 8 – in a warehouse. Dean wanted to question the demon, but he saw the look hidden behind Sam's eyes as he stared down at the captive boy and he knew he had to let this one go. Sam's own possession was far too recent, and too much about it had gone unsaid between them. So they'd simply exorcised the bastard back to hell, and gotten the hell out of Dodge. Dean had finally pulled into the Pine Acres Lodge sometime after midnight to the extreme annoyance of the disgruntled motel owner.

And now they were here. And Dean was stuck in the midst of a moment of disconcerting uncertainty, a feeling which was becoming far too common for his liking. And then another sound – almost too soft to hear - rushed into his awareness and drowned out every wandering thought in his internal narration.

From somewhere in the darkness of their mildewed motel room, Sam's breath hitched. It was a foreign sound to Dean's ears. Only distantly familiar in relation to Sam – a sound which contradicted the sturdy image of the 23-year-old man who was his brother.

_No, it can't be… Sam's crying?_

But the unnatural sound continued and Dean knew that was exactly what he was hearing. All at once he felt guilty for being awake. He felt like an intruder in a moment of private emotion.

_Sam would hate it if he knew I was awake…_

And yet, the other half of Dean's mind – the older brother half – rejected this notion of guilt. The big brother half of Dean knew that not only should he be awake for this moment, but he should be at Sam's side – damn the rules of manhood to hell.

And because the big-brother side of Dean had existed long before the manly side of either brother – he turned on the light.

But because he was a Winchester, and so was Sam – what he said was, "Sam, what the hell…"

Another sharp inhale – this time of surprise – and all at once Sam was trying to rattle off some explanation for his current position,

"Dean! I'm…um…I…uh," with very little success. And as Dean's eyes came into focus in the assaulting lamplight and he found where Sam's voice was coming from, it was achingly clear that no explanation but the truth could account for the situation at hand.

There was his little brother, huddled in the corner of their room, knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around them, head down. And all at once Dean was diminishing the space between them with quick purposeful strides even as Sam still fumbled for some story that would explain his state without sacrificing the Winchester-man status he'd worked so hard to attain. It was a hopeless effort though, because Dean could swear that with every step he took towards the huddled form in the corner, Sam grew younger. And as he squatted down in front of the boy, a lifetime of brother memories flooded his mind.

"Sam," he said, firmly, but Sam wouldn't look at him. And so, with gentle purpose, Dean reached out and lifted Sam's chin so that their eyes met. But what he saw reflected in the deep green orbs that stared back him, stole his breath away, made his own eyes sting, and barely left him with enough voice to utter "Oh Sammy" in a deep broken whisper.

Dean watched as Sam's cheeks flushed in response, watched as his brother, his _little_ brother, struggled not to give freedom to the fresh tears which threatened to spill from his eyes, watched as Sam shook his head out of Dean's soft grasp and looked to the floor again.

Sam kept his eyes down, fiddled with his fingers, and Dean watched, caught sight of a drop of saltwater fall to the musty carpet. And for a long moment, there was silence between them.

Dean didn't know what to say. He wanted to hold Sammy, comfort him, chase away the monsters as he'd done when they were young, but how could he? They were grown now, Sam wasn't a little boy anymore and if he hadn't allowed Dean to coddle him when he was 13, he'd probably give Dean a black eye for trying now.

But finally, Dean spoke, "You wanna talk about it?"

"No," Sam's reply was quick and laced with hostility. Then catching himself he said softer and businesslike, "It's stupid. We should get some sleep."

"Look Sam, you wanna go to sleep and pretend this whole Oprah moment never happened then fine. Hell, I'd be happy to. But you're the one doing a dead-on impression of your six-year-old self here. And my big brother intuition tells me that nightmares don't usually bring you to tears these days, so I'm guessing there's something else going on."

"It's nothing. I'm just being a baby," Sam responded, his voice echoing shame.

Dean could help but laugh at that. "Well yeah, but I've been saying that for years."

Sam didn't respond to the insult, except to reinforce his efforts to stifle his sniffling.

The kid was fidgeting miserably, and Dean knew he was embarrassed. Winchester rule number one: there's no crying in hunting. Dean didn't want to break it to him, but Sam had more emotional drama inside him than a Lifetime Original Movie.

When Sam stayed quiet, Dean sighed and said, "You can have a pass, Sammy."

"A pass?" Sam said in a small voice, still refusing to meet Dean's eyes.

It had been a tradition in their childhood. Each boy only got one pass a year – free from excessive torment and teasing if they were caught in an embarrassing situation.

"Yeah, you talk and no matter what, I won't make fun of you later. Just tell me what the fuck is going on because the next time I wake up to a crying _baby_ brother, I won't be so nice."

Sam glard at him and underneath the expression a wealth of emotions swirled like the dark clouds of a thunderstorm. Anger, hurt, embarrassment, a little hope maybe, and still that other emotion. Dean recognized it faintly, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was.

At last Sam spoke. "What if the demon wins? What if I turn into this horrible monster?"

Before he could stop himself, Dean sighed in exasperation. "Are you seriously bringing this up again, Sam? How many times do we have to have this conversation? Screw the freaking demon, dude. You are not going to turn evil."

_Would this kid ever learn? _Dean had sworn that if Sam brought up his "destiny of doom" one more time the police were going to have a murder-suicide on their hands. Dean was beginning to contemplate just that, but Sam interjected pleadingly,

"I'm sorry, please don't get mad! I'm just… Dean…"

"What, Sammy, what are you?"

The answer came in a voice so soft and broken that Dean had to strain to hear it.

"I'm scared."

And there it was. The heart of the issue they'd been dancing around ever since Sam had heard their father's damn prophecy. Sam was scared.

And Dean knew this went beyond the offhand, brushed-over "I'm scared, man" comments Sam had thrown out a few times in the last year. This wasn't just worry or apprehension or uncertainty. This was true, deep down, inescapable fear. This was the emotion Dean had recognized in Sam's eyes. He'd felt that same fear himself once before… 23 years earlier. It was the kind of fear that came from having your world turned completely upside down, from knowing everything was about to change in a horrible way and you were powerless to stop it. Twenty-three years and Dean could still remember that fear, could almost taste it in the back of his mouth.

Dean wasn't crazy for thinking Sam seemed younger, Sam _was_ younger. In this moment, Sam was nothing more or less than a scared little kid. Just like when Sam's nightmares first began, except now both brothers knew that Dean couldn't chase away every monster.

And because of this, Dean didn't try to tell Sam that there was nothing to be afraid of. Instead, he told him the truth.

"Me too." Dean said, settling back against the wall next to his brother.

Sam looked at him then, eyes wide in disbelief that Dean, the invincible _big_ brother, could be scared and – even more unbelievable – that he would admit it. Because that would be a flagrant violation of Winchester rule number two. But Dean could tell that his honesty had gotten through to Sam in a way nothing else had, because now – at the very least – he knew it was okay to be afraid.

They sat there together for a long time, the silence of understanding wrapping around them like a warm blanket. After a moment, Sam rested his head on Dean's shoulder tentatively, as if half-expecting his older brother to shrug him off. But Dean brought his hand up to rest on Sam's head, letting his fingers comb through the shaggy brown mop.

It was Sam who finally broke the silence, speaking as he roughly wiped his eyes once more.

"Sometimes, I just wish I could go back to when we were younger. Be a kid again - just for a little while. You know?" There was a desperate quality to the confession, as if Sam was almost hoping Dean could make it happen. And maybe he could.

"You're telling me, man. Pretty much the only cool thing about being grown-up is the chicks. Still, I don't miss your whole bedwetting thing, that was a pain in my ass."

"Shut up, Dean!" Sam whipped his head around to stare at Dean, horror-stricken. The topic was forbidden between them.

Laughing, Dean held up his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, don't get mad at me. Just think, if I hadn't gotten you those goodnites, you never would've been able to hide it from Dad. He would've freaked if he'd known you wet the bed til you were ten!"

"SHUT UP DEAN!" Sam exclaimed, shoving Dean hard against the wall. But suddenly Dean had him in a headlock and was giving him a noogie. Sam broke free and scrambled for his bed, grasping onto the closest pillow, which he slammed hard into Dean's face.

"Oh no you didn't" Dean said dangerously, before darting across the room to grab a pillow of his own. Laughing and shouting, and earning more than a few angry knocks on the wall from the room next door, they fought one another until they both collapsed, exhausted, onto their beds.

Finally, still panting from their battle, the boys crawled under their covers, both physically and emotionally spent. Sam switched off the light and Dean listened to him settle in the darkness.

Softly, Dean began to hum the music to _Desperado_. Sam had loved it as a little kid and Dean had often sung it to him as he fell asleep. So Dean hummed on, even after he heard Sam's breath even out into the heavy rhythm of sleep. Maybe he was humming for himself too. Sammy certainly wasn't the only one who longed for the simplicity and security of childhood again. Perhaps a part of both of them would always be a kid inside, just as sure as they would always, always be brothers.

**S&DWS&DWS&DWS&DWS&DWS&DWS&DWS&DWS&DWS&DWS&DWS&DW**

_So there ya go – my first attempt at fanfic. I definitely have some work to do, but I'm sort of proud of my little piece of the Winchester world. I definitely have an even deeper respect for those hardcore fanfiction writers whose work I enjoy so much! Please let me know what you guys think! Til next time… - Lew_


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